


Dear Dorian

by the_qunquisitor



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3663009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_qunquisitor/pseuds/the_qunquisitor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felix travels back to Minrathous and writes a few letters goodbye. Post-In Hushed Whispers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Dorian

**Author's Note:**

> The affair that never happened, the relationship that never was. Apparently.  
> In case you haven’t cried over Felix Alexius today, here you go. A toast for the ship that never sailed, and instead sank while still at the docks. These Tevinter kids deserved so much better.

His writing is getting illegible. The quill is trembling in his hands, scratching against the smooth surface of the paper like a talon carving into a stone.

                “ _Dear Dorian”,_ it says. That’s all there is. That’s all there has been for an hour. That’s all there has been ever since he met him.

                Felix wanted to write so much more. There are volumes of what was left unspoken, what he had hoped that one day, perhaps… It was a foolish thought. He should have known better. There is no point to this, anyway. Not anymore. Not when the blackness has already devoured him.

                _Dear Dorian,_ _do you remember? I remember._

                Trays covered with treats from the kitchen, dark chocolate with orange peels, vanilla soufflés, coffee and almond cakes. Wine so dark that it’s almost black, sweet and strong, loosening tongues and minds alike. The dim light in the study room, candles going out one by one until darkness replaces them, and then first rays of light creep around the drawn curtains. Fingers brushing ever so slightly against his forearm as Dorian leans in. _I like these three pages the best._ His hands are stained with black ink, lips darkened from the blueberry sauce, dishevelled black hair falls into his eyes. Felix’s skin tingles where he touched him. The citrusy smell of peppers and musk makes his head spin. All it would take would be to shift only slightly closer.

                He would put all of this on the paper, if he could. He would have done it earlier.

                But the blood, it boils in his veins with each heartbeat, his breath catching in his throat each time he swallows. His eyes burn, so he rubs them until sparks dance in the corners of his vision. He blinks several times to clear them out, gritting his teeth as a painful headache grips his skull.

                He puts down the quill. Jolts of pain shoot up through his fingers, and he curls them into a fist until they stop shaking. Blue veins throb against his sickly pale skin.

                _How are you, dear Dorian?_

                The way his eyes brighten when something catches his interest. The way he pauses before turning to another page. The way he wears his cocky grin like armour, fading away the moment he thinks nobody is watching him. The way he tilts his head back when he laughs. _No, I’m really fine._ He’s not. He hasn’t spoken to his father in weeks.

                He should have written this earlier, there is still so much left to say. He did what he could, said his goodbyes, sent them by ravens one after another, save for this one. There was always more time for it. And now he can’t even finish those few damned sentences, and there won’t be any other chance.

                 How do you even write something like that? How do put it into words? Maker knows it wasn’t easy before, so how should this - the prospect of him being dead in the next hour - possibly make anything easier?

                _I like trouble, dear Dorian._

                He would say it, wink, and laugh. Dorian would laugh back. That was the end of it, or so he had thought. Later, he would be thinking about that laughter for hours.

                Wishing for more. Hoping for more.

                Could have. Would have. Should have.

                He coughs, wheezing and shaking, choking on air. Red dots spatter the paper. He stares at it. Fatigue is starting to cloud his mind, but he still knows what this means.

                It’s time.

                There is no dawn of realisation to this thought, no cold wave of dread washing over him, no fear to accompany it. He has made peace with himself a long time ago. He wrote letters to everyone except for Dorian. Until today, he assumes, he still hoped he wouldn’t have to. It was foolish. Of course he is passing away. Nobody can stop that. Even his father could do nothing, and he had tried the hardest.

                Felix reaches out and rings a bell.

                _I’m dying, dear Dorian._

                He already knows by the time Felix tells him in person. _For a walking corpse, you look almost alright._ They smirk. Then they get so drunk that they can barely walk. Felix sobs on his shoulder. _I don’t want to die._

                The healer walks into the room, and the old slave, who has served his family even before Felix was born, slouches behind him. His wrinkled face curls up as he sees Felix’s bloodshot eyes and trembling hands, and perhaps the blood on his collar. This man used to sing him lullabies when nightmares had plagued him as a child.

                “Gentlemen,” Felix smiles, shifting his arm to cover up the bloodstained letter, “I am afraid that my time has finally come.”

                The healer’s eyebrows knit together. He signals to the slave, and in a moment, he returns with a beautifully ornamented silver cup.

                “Hemlock, deathroot, and mandragora, among other things. You will not feel a thing.” The healer’s glassy eyes show no emotion. He had done this a thousand times before.

                Funnily enough, Felix will only do it once.

                “That is… pleasant to hear.” He takes the cup with both his hands. He would drop it, otherwise. “Would it be rude to make a toast?” he smirks.

                “It is your death, my lord,” the healer bows his head. “I believe you can do as you please.”

                Felix coughs again. The throbbing is worse. It feels as if his whole body is freezing over, hailstones flowing in his veins, his lungs shrinking a little more with each breath he takes. Words scratch against his dry throat as he speaks.

                “To my friend, then, to the best of us. Live magnificently, dear Dorian.” He carefully raises the cup for his last toast.

                _This is it,_ he thinks as he brings the poison to his lips. The smell is heavy and sweet, making his head spin just from sniffing it. The first sip is bitter, making his tongue curl with nausea. The last one is as sweet as an ice wine, and he licks his lips to taste the last drops.

                The old slave takes him gently by the arm, guiding him to his bed. He lies down, the smooth silky sheets cool against his skin. Only then he sees that the slave is weeping, big tears running down his wrinkled face.

                “It’s alright,” Felix mumbles. “Everyone dies.”

                He closes his eyes. He can’t feel his feet anymore, and his hands are going numb as well. Soon, he won’t feel anything. A pleasant change from the past months. This shall be a relief.

                The letter still lies on the desk, sprayed with his own blood. It will never be sent. There _is_ nothing to send.

                He can feel his breathing slow down, a light haze clouding his senses. His body doesn’t hurt any longer. No blood burns in his veins, sharp needles let go of his head, his shoulders relax against the pillow. He can’t remember what it felt like, to feel pain. He is dying. He will die soon.

_But there are worse fates than dying, dear Dorian._


End file.
